Wild One
by Milkshakes-and-collarbones
Summary: There's a certain something about Dallas Winston that words just can't seem to touch. A look at how Dallas and Sylvia meet and develop a relationship (Sylvia's POV).
1. Sylvia

**Hey guys! I hope you enjoy the first story I've ever written for this site. Just a quick note: a few months ago, I published the first two chapters, but since I'm super indecisive, I kept going back and rewriting them over and over again. So I decided to just wait until I was happy with them and then upload them both at the same time. So yeah... they've ended up completely different than they were when I started, but oh well! :) Thanks for reading! xx**

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(Sylvia's POV)

The cracks in the mirror make my face look like a broken china doll.

"Stay outta trouble. I'll be back tomorrow." Even through the door that divides us, I can hear my old man's words bleeding together and know he's already drunk. Like he thinks I have no idea what he does all night long. Like there's some reason for me to have my shit together while he'll barely even be able to get his own face out of the gutter in the morning.

Seconds later, the slam of the front door rattles the house. My eye shadow palette tips off its shelf and clatters into the sink. If he has to leave, can't he at least do it quietly? When I pick the palette up, the powder pours between my fingers like sand; I watch it collect in a metallic golden ring around the drain.

Where's my lipstick? The last time I used it must have been... last Friday. I rifle through my memory of that night but find only fuzzy, disjointed out the tube is lying just under my bed skirt in a layer of dust and cigarette butts and glittering shards of glass. I must've dropped it before I fell asleep—well, passed out, to be more exact. It's my signature hooker red, the one common stamp I put on all the guys who fuck me; I'll never be seen at a party without it.

When I towel the lipstick off and open it, the tip crumbles off and leaves a glaring red smear on my skirt. With an explosive cuss, I try to scrub it off, but only succeed in widening the smear. I don't have another clean skirt, so this one will have to do. It doesn't matter anyway. The only thing guys care about is what's underneath. The way men look at me, the way their eyes crawl all over me like spiders, is so familiar I can almost think of it as a loving caress.

Wielding the lipstick stub like a crayon, I etch horns and a maniacal, saber-toothed grin on the mirror. Now I'm a satanic china doll. Broken and bad.

Curling my toes until they crack, I wriggle on a too-small pair of Stilettos I stole from a Sears when I was fourteen. Their glossy blue-black has been mottled by too many years of too much use. Wonder if I could get away with swiping another pair, given I no longer have youth on my side. The bathroom door sticks stubbornly, but after a few good kicks it gives in. On my way out of the house, I grab some Cheerios for dinner and deposit them in a fold of my shirt. The sun has just disappeared under the horizon, leaving the sky bruised, and the hairs on my bare arms bristle at the nippy March breeze.

The cheerios are dry and stale and stick to the roof of my mouth. God, but I need a smoke. I dig a weed out of my purse and puff away, breathing the smoke to the side so I don't have to walk through it. There's a flower garden in someone's front yard, full of petunias and pansies and frilly yellow pom-poms I don't know the name of, and I give it a kick on my way by, just because.

Silhouetted figures dance in the windows of Buck's place and some Hanks Williams sing threatens to destroy my eardrums as soon as I open the door. Somehow a beer finds its way into my hand, and somewhere not too far away, a girl shrieks with laughter. Or maybe fear—I can't tell. Sweat beads across my brow, and cigarette smoke hangs in the air like fog. Dimly I know my friend Sharon is beside me, and then she's not. Must've gone to hover around some guy. A few inches to my right, Two-Bit Matthews, his eyes glassy and his tank top soaked with sweat, has his hands all over a blonde whose wobbly heels and frosted lipstick might as well be screaming "underage." Nothing unusual happens until about eleven o'clock, when a girl's screech carries above the din. "You _what?"_

"Oh, I dunno, I mean... c'mon, wouldn't ya agree this place's a little... _scummy?"_ another voice clucks. It's Bethie, a short, pug-nosed brunette I've brushed shoulders with at the DX a few times.

"Well shoot!" the first girl says in a huff. There's something familiar about her, about her dirty blonde hair, about the way her dark eyeliner makes her eyes look huge, but I can't quite place her. Maybe I'd be able to if I wasn't quite so boozed up. "I just can't believe you'd go behind our backs for him like that. All because of some cheating Soc who bought you a milkshake."

Bethie shrugs, folds her arms over her chest, and replies evenly, "The heart knows best."

"Yeah, well, this ain't _Romeo and Juliet."_

"Besides, my Mom been sayin' it ain't fittin' for me to be spendin' so much time 'round bums and dropouts, and I can't say I—"

"But they're white trash! Always think they're so great, always on our case 'bout stuff we got nothin' to do with. Always chasin' us all over our own turf, too. You were there the day Billy Sullivan got jumped. How could you just..."

"Greasers do that too."

"It just ain't the same, Bethie. Ya know it ain't."

She's right. There is a shade of difference. Socs tend to be a little more barbaric, wanting to kill greasers and not just hurt them. More often than not, greasers have no choice but to play defense.

"I mean, there's some pretty bad hoods in here," Bethie is rattling on, as if being a hood is contagious. "I just can't figure out why y'all like comin' here. It's no place for—"

I'm sober enough to know I'd walk away if I was smart, but drunk enough not to. I'm just about to slap that ugly little face when she adds, "Smells like grease in here, too. Dirty car grease."

At which point I switch my plan to a good old-fashioned punch in the jaw.

I get up in the girl's face, so close I can smell her flowery perfume, and introduce my fist to her jaw before she can react. It feels like a balloon has just deflated inside my chest, and the next thing I know we're both on the floor and my fingers are wrapped around her wrist to keep it down and she's writhing and begging me to get off but I won't cut traitors no slack, and then there's blood smeared on her upper lip and all I can hear are her stupid catlike mews.

I don't even feel the hands on me until my swings no longer reach the girl's face. One look at that messed-up face brings a laugh of victory to my lips. _Good._ I allow myself to be pried off of her without a fight. A ring of spectators has formed; Two-Bit even let go of his blonde long enough to enjoy the show.

"Feel free to get offa me now," I snap, and the hands release my shoulders. It's Theo Williamson, a hulking, two-fisted guy who screwed me a few months back. Another canvas for my lipstick stamps. He doesn't seem to remember me. Bethie's blonde friend rounds on me, fire in her eyes, and I clench my fists by my sides in case they'll come in handy, but before she can show me what she's got a tall guy in a leather jacket sidles in between us. He and Bethie's friend flip each other the bird, and then she just blurts some flimsy insult, turns on her heel, and hovers over her poor little traitor friend.

"You're crazy, dollface," says the guy who stepped in, and I look up into the smirking face of none other than Dallas Winston. Everybody knows Dallas Winston; whether you like him or not, the rules are you have to respect him, and if you don't follow the rules you end up like Bethie. When Dallas came to Tulsa, it was like a tornado swept through the entire east side. He grew up in the tough part of New York City and has even been hauled in jail several times.

To tell the truth, I want nothing to do with the creep. Something in that pea-sized brain of his thinks it's his personal right to screw every girl on the face of the planet—and he doesn't go about it nicely, either. Hell, he'd even try to put the moves on the queen of England if he had the chance.

"Whaddya want with me?" I drawl flatly, knowing perfectly well the answer.

One blonde eyebrow cocked, he sneers, "You got that little broad real good. Almost as good as I could've done."

I don't have the energy to put up another fight, especially when it comes to Dallas Winston. "Oh, I done worse," I shrug, nursing my beer and trying to look uninterested.

Big mistake. "Oh yeah? Like what?" Hitching his thumbs in his belt loops, he edges closer and then winks, cocks his blonde head, and puts his tongue between his teeth. He thinks he's so cute, the little drunk moron. "C'mon, you can tell me. Don't be scared." Before I have time to move, his fingers are up in my hair. I brace myself for a yank, but it never comes.

"Use your imagination." The words are twisted a little because I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

"What was that, dollface?"

"I said use—"

"Oh, you said you like the way my pants look, didn't ya?"

"I said—"

"Said you'd like 'em better if they were off, though."

"Stop it, you creep."

"What'd I do?" His fingers are still playing with my hair—not nicely, but not quite rough either. "Nah, what I really wanna know is what'd _she_ do?" His thumb jerks over his shoulder.

It takes me a beat to realize he's talking about Bethie. "Got herself tangled up with some Soc guy and didn't tell anyone."

"Little broads always fuckin' backstabbin' us, for sure." He nods, a quick, mean motion. "I mean, awe, that's too bad." His hand, the one that was just in my hair, suddenly darts around my waist. A little sigh flutters in my chest, but dies as quickly as it began when Dallas' hand dips toward my butt. "Get offa me."

"Who's gonna make me?"

"Me."

He only laughs this big dopey laugh and slouches against the wall, his cig dangling from his fingers. "I'd like to see ya try."

I try to stare him down, but I'm nothing against those icy blue eyes. "Look, if you're tryin' to ask what I'm doin' tonight, it ain't you." It's my default leave-me-alone line. Works every time.

But apparently not on The Amazing Dallas Winston. "No one talks to me like that."

Maybe it's the booze that helps me ignore the danger in his tone. "Maybe my name is No One then."

"Hey dollface, you still workin' at the Dingo?"

Guys are like alley cats looking for food; they'll follow you around for a while, but if you don't give them what they want, they'll get tired of you and try someone else. I resolve not to look at Dallas' face.

"You gonna answer me or what?"

"Nah, I got fired," I tell my hands.

"What for?"

"Bein' late too many times." I make a move to escape, but the crowd is so thick there's nowhere to go. Dally makes a grab at the hem of my dress and I whirl around, slapping him away. "Don't ya know when to leave a girl the fuck alone? Take a hint, birdbrain."

"Okay, okay, I get it," he sneers, but not without rubbing his forearm, which is reddening from my slap. "You don't wanna talk about bein' fired, I get it. Ya don't gotta yell in my face about it."

 _Don't look at his face._

"I hate this song," he mutters, too busy ogling me, I'm sure, to really listen to the song. He's got this look in his eyes like a little kid gazing at a glowing television, and when guys get that look I know they're putty in my hands. Then I realize I looked at him.

"Got a problem with my face?" But it wasn't his face that made me look. It was something in his voice. And looking at him, I see it in his eyes too. His mean little blue eyes.

"Well, what is it?"

I chug the last half of my drink and slam the bottle down, hoping it drowns the urge to kiss him. "Nothin'." Maybe if I say it, I'll believe it.

"Who messed up that pretty little face of yours?" He means the scar above my eye.

"Had a run-in with the fuzz for threatenin' an officer," I mumble. It's the canned excuse I give everyone who asks. The scar is from my old man.

"C'mon, dollface, let's go outside. It's hot in here."

"You just wanna get me alone so you can do things to me without no one watchin'."

"And?"

Maybe it's what I heard in his voice, or maybe it's because I'm too crocked to remember my own name, or maybe it's a little mix of both, but somehow or other I find myself standing beside Dallas Winston on Buck's back porch. The party thumps on the other side of the door, beating to a chorus of crickets from the trees. It's quiet and cool back here; it might even be nice if it weren't for Dallas' beer breath down my neck. He digs a pack of Kools out of his back pocket and offers me one. I accept the gift.

"You're off your rocker, dollface, is what you are," he mutters, lighting up.

A grin steals across my face, and I'm grateful for the darkness. "Look who's talkin'."

A chilly breeze picks up. At some point, his arm finds its way around my waist, but this time it stays there.

"I ain't about to bow down and kiss up to you like everyone else," I inform him, looking away.

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Playin' hard to get, huh?"

I take a long drag and watch the curls of smoke fade into nothingness. Like life. When it comes down to it, everything is temporary. I like temporary. Temporary is ride-or-die, hit-and-run. If there's one piece of information I've absorbed in my seventeen and a half years, it's that it's a hell of a lot easier to let go if your grip is already loose.

 _You might score one night,_ I want to tell Dallas, _but don't get your hopes up for anything else._ I've seen enough of relationships to know that.

"C'mon, let's go upstairs." I'm not sure which one of us says it.

* * *

 _Flashback_

 _I didn't know how long he'd be gone. It's not that I didn't want him to go—wait, no, of course I didn't. I didn't want him to go. But... there was a tiny, terrible part of me that knew I could breathe a little easier when he wasn't around. Sometimes he'd just leave with no explanation, just one day he'd be there and the next day he wouldn't. You'd never know when he'd come back. And there was always the looming possibility that he might never come back. But there was one unfailing pattern: time after time, he'd come back stumbling and very angry at me and Momma for reasons I could never quite figure out._

 _"Take care of your mother for me, will ya?" he growled over his shoulder, pulling the door closed with an echoing slam. I counted his steps as he grew smaller and smaller; at step fifty-three he disappeared around a corner. When I turned around, Momma was curled up at the foot of the stairs, her shoulders quaking. I stood rooted to the spot, awkward and transfixed. I had never seen a grown-up cry before. She raised her contorted face and I looked at my shoes. "He's supposed to_ love _me," she half-screamed, half-sobbed. "He's supposed to_ love _me, Sylvia! I_ married _that man! He's supposed to love me. What've I gotten myself into?" She sagged again, her whole body lurching._

 _That night, I slept fitfully. Outside my window, a thunderstorm raged, wringing the trees and threatening to uproot my house with a single swing of its fist. In the morning Momma wasn't in her room._

 _"Momma?" I called, but my voice rang empty inside the house. "MOMMA!" The silence was the loudest thing I'd ever heard. Forgetting that I was clothed only in my filmy nightgown, I broke into a sprint. The corner convenience store was the first place I came to. "Have you seen my momma?" I asked the lady behind the register. She shook her head and said, "Put somethin' on over that nightgown, kid, 'fore ya git yourself int' any trouble, ya hear?"_

 _On wobbly legs, I started for home. Clustered just outside the front door were about five cops._ _"You Sylvia Richards, girl?" one of them barked, squatting so his eyes were level with mine. I would remember those eyes, those piercing green eyes, for the rest of my life._

 _I nodded. Tears were a growing threat; I felt them licking, stinging at the edges of my eyes. I swallowed hard. I would not cry in front of a cop. If there was one thing I had learned from my parents, it was never to show weakness in front of a cop._

 _"Daughter of Bob and Emily Richards? Eight years of age?" he continued._

 _I nodded once more._

 _"Where's your daddy at?"_

 _I froze. "I-I dunno."_

 _"Whaddya mean you don't know? Ain't 'e at work or someplace? Don't you know where 'e is?"_

 _Another cop spoke up. "Just tell 'er, Banks."_

 _So he did. Momma had been found beside Pike's lane, just out of town, around four o'clock that morning. Her car had gone over a small drop-off. She had most likely died instantly._

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 **Reviews are strongly appreciated (hinthinthint) :))))))) It is my first time using the site. How am I doing?** _  
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	2. Cigarettes

**Thanks so much for reading!**

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 _Cupid, draw back your bow_

 _And let your arrow go_

 _Straight to my lover's heart for me, for me_

 _Cupid, please hear me cry_

 _And let your arrow fly_

 _Straight to my lover's heart for me_

Everyone tells me I'm lucky to work at a record store. Most kids on this side of town got stuck with dirty jobs, like gassing up cars or cleaning restaurants. How I managed to wind up in this place after getting kicked out of the Dingo is beyond my mind, but here I am. Pure luck, I guess.

Business is slow on a Tuesday afternoon, and there's nothing to do but sit and tap my fingers to the music. I can't even smoke. After my boss Teddy caught me with a weed on the job twice, I never dared to try again. So it's just me and Sam Cooker's voice.

The doorbell jingles, and, eager for a diversion, I look up to see my friends—Sharon, Barb, and Angie—breeze in.

Sharon is a real devil. It's impossible to be bored with her nearby. She's got a mean face and flaming ginger hair done up in a victory roll and a mouth that can be sweet as a lamb one minute, but could strike if you so much as breathe the wrong way. She's the kind of girl who two-times her guy just for kicks, but as for her girlfriends, she's the one who goes the extra mile, who does your hair and listens to your gossip.

Barb is Sharon's polar opposite, which always comes as a surprise, since they're pretty tight. Barb is the envy of every greaser in the neighborhood—and I mean everyone, guys and girls alike. She's got bouncy curls like Marilyn Monroe and a nose like Sophia Loren and a smile like Elizabeth Taylor. She doesn't talk much, and when she does, her voice is a little rustle of silk. She's been going steady with one of Tim Shepard's boys for nearly a year. Before that, she was with one of the hoods from downtown, Lenny something-or-other, and I swear he thought she was some sort of punching bag. She showed me the bruises under her skirt and made me promise not to tell. And then one night, the bastard just left and didn't come back. Rumor has it the fuzz were after him and he hitched a train to New York City.

And Angela, Angie Shepard, Tim Shepard's kid sister. She began tagging along a few years ago and we couldn't shake her off, so, in the hopes that it would finally shut her up, we agreed to let her in. She's a pesky little prick, wears too much eyeliner and giggles too much, but she's okay once you get to know her.

"What happened to your lip?" Angie blurts out as soon as she sees me.

My old man was in one of his bad moods this morning. I hightailed it out of the house as fast as I could, but not without a small bruise. "Tripped over the steps yesterday." It's a flimsy excuse, but she buys it.

Sharon, thumping her elbows onto the counter and folding her hands under her chin, says, in a singsong voice, "I saw you and Dallas Winston Friday night."

Angie emits a series of horrible, earsplitting squealing noises. "You got _Dally!"_

When I don't respond, Sharon persists, "C'mon, spill it. How'd 'e do in bed?" She claws a pack of cigs out of her purse.

"Not half as good as they say. Don't smoke in here." Then, seeing her reaction, "Sorry, not my rule."

She shoots me a funny look.

"We're walkin' over to the Nightly Double tonight," Barb pipes up. "There's some dumb old chick flick movie on the screen. We wanted to know if you could make it."

"Sure, when's it on?"

"Eight."

"I'll meet y'all there."

"I still can't believe you actually got _Dally!"_ Angie giggles. "I mean, it's _Dally!"_

"Yeah, okay." I jam my fists into my pockets. "It was only 'cause I fucked up that girl who's been seein' the Soc." But a smile gives me away.

By the time they leave, it's six forty-five, and the store closes at seven. I decide to start on my after-hours cleaning, taking my sweet time because I'm in no hurry to get home—especially with my old man stinking up the place. At about five of, I'm wiping down the counter when the bell chimes. Hoping it's finally an actual customer, I look up, only to see the slouched figure of Dallas Winston.

"Well whaddya know, look who it is."

"We're closed."

"The sign don't say so."

"I was about to change it."

"Nice to see you too."

"As if you got any manners yourself, the fine southern gentleman you are."

He drags his fingers over a rack of Elvis vinyls, pulls one out, and tucks it under his arm.

"You gonna buy that? We're closin' in five."

He says nothing, just continues to gaze mutely at the records. Then, with a look I can't quite read, he comes behind the counter where I'm standing. I can practically hear his eyes scanning my body. What a perv. "Nice bruise, dollface."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks. I got it just for you."

"Don't get smart with me." Before I know what's happening, his hand is a blur and the back of my skirt is up. I whirl around, swatting at him, and he recoils. "Hey, I was just tryin' to get a record!" he yelps, pretending to be stung.

"Look, I ain't got no time for small talk. Buy the record or beat it."

"Okay, okay, geez. Ya look awful nice when you're mad, dollface. Anyone tell ya that before?"

Trying not to blush, I direct my attention to wiping down the counter. "Why'd you come in here?"

"To kill you."

I roll my eyes.

"And get a record."

"Three bucks. Hand it over."

"Hey, hey, wait a hot second. I said 'get,' not 'buy.'"

A small grin steals across my face; I'm glad I'm looking down. "Don't think you're gonna get away with stealin' on my watch."

"What're you gonna do about it?"

I finish cleaning, then shrug into my coat and snatch my purse. "Put it back. The store's closin'."

His hands go up in surrender. "Alright, alright."

"And make sure you put it back where you found it," I call after him. "With the 'P's."

"Boy, I can't believe ya know your alphabet, dollface, that's crazy."

God, there are a million places I'd rather be headed than home. Home sweet fucking home. My house is just about the furthest from "sweet" a house can get. I wonder hopefully if my old man's bad mood has run its course. If he's not the same now as he was this morning, he's worse.

I flip the sign on the door to _Sorry, we're closed_ and, dreading every step a little extra today for some reason, start home. Dallas stays by my side, but I don't bother to object. After all, the sun is setting, and you never know when someone like Dallas could come in handy as a bodyguard. So all I say is a tight-lipped, "Don't touch me."

"Remember that little broad you beat up Friday night? I found out where she lives. The gang and me was thinkin' we could drop by one night and bust her car up some."

I don't mean to laugh, it just comes out on its own.

"Tim and me, we do it all the time," he goes on. "Slash each other's tires, I mean. Back and forth, back and forth—shoot, neither of us ever has full tires for more'n a month."

"You got a bigger head than the president of the fucking United States," I tell him. "Me and a couple friends, we did it to our teacher once, but nothin' worse'n that."

"You didn't tell me you go to school."

"I don't. Not anymore."

He reaches for his back pocket and frowns when his hand comes up empty. "Shit, I'm outta cancer sticks," he mutters, followed by: "I mean, oh no, I'm outta cancer sticks."

I rummage around in my purse, only to find that I must've left my pack of cigs behind in my haste to leave the house this morning. "I don't got none either," I sigh, suddenly realizing how appealing a smoke sounds.

"Let's go get some."

"'Get' or 'buy?'"

"I dunno. Depends."

We angle our path toward a convenience store on the corner. "If you get caught, don't bring me into it."

"I won't, I won't. I got lotsa practice."

"So I see. I'm waitin' outside." I've stolen more than my share of things, but this is different. This is Dallas. I cross my legs and lean against the plate glass window of the convenience store. I can see the shadow of my house from here growing longer and longer in the waning light of day.

There's a thud as the door closes, and Dallas, whistling jauntily, reappears. He's got a two packs of Kools rattling in his hand. "That was easy," he grunts.

"When was the last time you actually paid for somethin' you got?" I ask, nodding my thanks as he hands over one of the boxes.

"Must'a been a real long time ago." His eyes glittering in the semi-darkness, he plucks out a stick and lights it. "Don't think I remember."

"That dense head of yours gonna get you in real trouble one of these days."

"The law's just some pieces of paper bein' tossed around by a couple'a millionaires in a big building, is all. Ever thought of it that way?"

We continue down the street, my feet dragging. Dallas' arm is a soft weight on my shoulders and I almost like it—that is, before his hand moves toward my breast. I duck out of his grasp. "Piss off, perv!"

"Okay, geez. I was just keepin' you warm is all," he protests, his hair haloed from a streetlamp, and I swear for a second he looks like a blonde angel.

"Right, sure."

"Maybe you'd be better off in bed, puttin' that mean mouth to good use," he smirks.

"Shut your trap."

"Make me."

When we stop in the looming shadow of my house, my insides twist like a snake. There's the chip in the front stoop, the water stains on the concrete, the rusty railing. God, do I fucking hate this place. My hand flutters to my bruise. I'll make Dally shut up. Not because I want to, but because it's better than the alternative.

The first thing I notice is that his lips feel softer than they seemed last night. The second thing I notice is that they taste exactly like a cigarette. It's the first time in my life I've kissed the same pair of lips more than one night. And I feel a sort of cold laugh rise up in my throat, because it really is funny, everything I've been missing out on.

When we break apart, there's a smirk on his face. "Geez, dollface, where'd _that_ come from?" But he yanks me in for more.

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 **Thanks so much for taking the time to read! I'm new to the site, so reviews are appreciated. Until next time lovlies... _  
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	3. Joyride

**I hope you have as much fun reading this chapter as I did writing it.**

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 _Fuck_.

The word explodes into my brain the moment I open my eyes.

Glory, it all happened so fast. I must've caught some kind of psycho disease, the way I went and fell for that son-of-a-bitch. What next?

I'm briefly distracted from my dilemma by my old man's voice outside my door: "I'm gonna be out for a while. Stay outta trouble."

Since when has he started getting up at seven in the goddamn morning? Even the fucking birds are probably still asleep. Rolling over and burying my head under my pillow, I hum to drown out the slam of the door I know will follow. But I can still feel it.

* * *

I can't breathe. The air is crushed from my lungs, and I'm plastered to my seat. "Dallas, you're gonna _kill_ us!" I scream over the roar of the engine and the wind when I find my breath.

He just flashes me his crooked grin. He's got his wrists draped over the steering wheel, completely nonchalant, as if he drives gleaming red souped-up T-birds eighty-five miles an hour every day of his life. We're miles out of Tulsa by now, and as far as the eye can see are acres of green, pastural land. Well, now it looks more like one continuous blur, ever since Dallas floored it. My eyes water and my hair stings my face.

And then some switch turns on deep inside my belly, and I get goosebumps all down my arms and it's not from the cold vinyl seats or even from fear, and suddenly I crave the wind. I close my eyes, open my mouth, let my tongue hang out like a dog. I swear the wind tastes sweet, like molasses. Empty asphalt stretches out in front of us like an unraveling carpet. We're free.

Too soon, Dallas lays off the gas a little. He shoots me a rueful smile. "Sorry, dollface. We'll run clean outta gas if we keep that up."

I don't need to glance at the rearview mirror to know my updo looks dreadful, so I don't even bother to try to fix it. Instead I just unpin my victory roll and let my hair dangle around my face in flyaway wisps. I look back at the road we've covered, half expecting to see smoldering skid marks or something. "We could've died," I manage, trying to catch my breath.

"But we didn't," Dallas points out stupidly.

"Well, yeah, but my point was that we _could've."_

"And my point was that we didn't."

"You didn't know that when you hit the gas," I retort.

"Look, I thought you was havin' a ball."

My feathers rise. "Yeah, I was, but we still could've died."

"That's just dandy with me, as long's we didn't," he shrugs.

"You're hopeless."

"Right back at ya. At least I have a car," he adds smugly. "You can't even say that."

"This thing ain't yours, it's Buck's."

"At least my friends let me use their cars, then. You can't say that either." But a fly lands on his nose as he says it, so I award myself the point.

The road we're on is now taking us through a cattle pasture. The grass is green, greener than anything back in the city; I can't keep my eyes off it. When we reach the crest of a small hill, Dallas cusses under his breath and slams on the brakes. A big brown cow is standing smack in the middle of the road, eyeing us as if we just interrupted her Sunday brunch.

"Move it," Dallas grunts, laying on the horn.

"Why can't you just go 'round?"

"Buck'd kill me if the tires get muddy."

The creature sniffs the windshield with a wet, hairy nose. She cocks her head, fixing us with a curious milky-eyed gaze, and flicks her tail at flies without any clear intention of moving.

It's a stalemate.

"Move it, you ugly thing," Dallas snaps, earning nothing but a slow blink. "Shove on over, fatass. 'Scuse us. Alright then, if you won't move yourself, I'm gonna have to do it for you." He gets out, closing the door with a slam that jingles the keys in the ignition, and stalks around the front of the car.

"Watch out," I call, afraid the creature might charge at him.

He approaches the animal, and when she still doesn't budge, places both hands on her flank and gives a nudge. In one swift movement, she turns her head, picks up her hooves, and lumbers into the grass.

The car plunges a little as he gets back in, and we continue rolling down the road. Silence falls. Not bad silence, just silence. "Dallas," I say at length, "what was it like in the cooler?"

He shifts in his seat. "What, you plannin' on takin' a stay there yourself?"

"Nah, I was just wonderin'."

"The food was the worst part. Looked like a plate full of shit." He keeps his features impassive; his mouth opens and closes several times as if he can't decide on the right words. "Back in New York, one of the guys I shared a cell with—think his name was Bobby—one morning I woke up an' he'd hung himself by tyin' a sheet 'round his neck."

"Geez, I—that's awful."

"You ever get hauled in, I'll tell you more. For now that's all ya need to know. I recommend not gettin' hauled in in the first place."

The rumble of the wheels is lulling, and I'm tired from last night. I nestle my head on Dally's shoulder, taking in the scent of him, the cool leather and the cigarette smoke, and let my eyes close. Last night... last night! Shit, I forgot all about that chick flick movie at eight.

Dallas slings an arm over my shoulders. "You're lucky you're pretty," he grumbles.

"Mm?" I'm not even alert enough to remind him to keep two hands on the wheel.

* * *

 _Flashback_

 _"Sylvia? Sylvia Richards?" Miss Barnes, my English teacher, was calling. While everyone was chatting and setting up for class, I trudged over to her desk, and she peered at me over round, wire-rimmed spectacles. "Mr. Oldham would like to see you."_

 _"Now?"_

 _"He didn't specify a time in his note, so I suggest you go now and see what he would like."_

 _I was grateful for an excuse to skip English class, even if it was to visit the principal. English in middle school was worse than it had been in elementary school, and I had held a deep-seated hatred for Shakespeare since the moment I had opened a copy of_ Hamlet _. I had come to know the hallways to Mr. Oldham's office like the lines on my palm; I strolled in there as if I were entering my own bedroom._

 _"Oh, hello again, Sylvia," said the stooping white-haired secretary lady whose name I'd never bothered to remember. "You may take a seat. Mr. Oldham will be with you shortly."_

 _I knew what to do. What did she think I was, retarded? I sank down onto one of the chairs, picking at the peeling paint on the armrest. There was a stack of books on the side table, all of them with titles such as_ Apathy: Causes, Symptoms, and Treatments _and_ How to Raise a Healthy Teenager.

 _I heard the familiar whining creak of Mr. Oldham's office door "Good morning, Miss Richards," he said without meaning it. "Please come in." He waved me inside. The walls were plain and white like big glaciers on all sides; there was a small square window, but the shades were drawn. I sat, and the principal drew up a chair opposite me, his bald head shiny with the light of his desk lamp._

 _"So, Miss Richards," he began, interlacing his fingers and twiddling his thumbs. "Last week we discussed your encounter with a couple of students at recess, and if I recall correctly you promised to change your habits, but your teachers have reported no visible improvement within the past week. It has come to my attention that you were involved in a fight with a group of girls in the hallway yesterday."_

 _They'd made some wisecrack about the holes in my skirt looking like Swiss cheese, and I had clobbered one of them over the head with my history textbook. It hadn't been a mighty blow—the girl had gotten up right away—but it had been enough to send her Soc-y, sweater-clad friends into hysterics. I cocked my head. "And?"_

 _"Don't get mouthy, Miss Richards."_

 _My fingers itched to wrap themselves around the man's neck and strangle the snooty frown right off his pink face—or at least for a weed. Biting back a sneer, I returned his stare as if silently challenging him._

 _"I have been thinking," he droned on in his usual impassive manner, "that maybe your increase in violent behavior could be related to the passing of your mother." He looked at me expectantly, and when I offered no reply, continued, "When someone loses a loved one, they often become closed off from the world around them. I, and all of our staff and students, are terribly sorry for your loss. Please know that we're here for you. But I would like to make it clear that this school will not tolerate aggressive behaviors of any kind and that safety is still our top priority."_

 _It was then that I blew my lid. "YOU STUPID IDIOT," I screamed, scrambling to my feet so fast my chair toppled over. I grabbed hold of the first thing my eyes locked onto—a framed portrait of his smiling family—and hurled it blindly. "You don't know what it's like!" The thing left an angry black streak down the wall and lay shattered on the floor. My lungs hurt. My voice broke._ It wasn't my fault that all that remained of my sanity had just shriveled up and died. _I kicked the door and it fell open, swinging from one hinge. I either ignored Mr. Oldham's shouts to come back, or didn't hear them at all; all I knew was that I was running, my legs pumping, blood rushing loud in my ears, tears and dust stinging my eyes. I ran past my house without so much as a glance. I ran until I couldn't anymore._

 _Then I stopped, panting like a dog, my hands on my knees._ _My lungs ached and my mouth was dry as a bone and sweat was dripping down my back._ _Dimly I knew I shouldn't be walking around by myself in this part of town, but I was too dazed to care. All I wanted was to go to sleep and not wake up until I could breathe again, even if that meant never. I slumped against the side of a building and, my legs shaking with fatigue, sank down to the asphalt and curled up in a tight little ball just like Momma had done the day before she died. The ground blurred, and dreadful guttural sobs wracked my body._

 _I didn't know how much time had passed before I heard a small, "Hey?" from above. Drawing back in defense, I stared into the wide eyes of a brown-haired boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, who was crouched by my side. Goddamn, he had the looks going for him. Why did he have to be the one to find me in such a state?_

 _Sodapop Curtis. It was Soda._

 _We both started jabbering at the same time. "I'm sorry, I—" "I just couldn't—"_

 _"You first," he said gently._

 _Out of fear that my voice would crack, I whispered. "Sorry, I didn't know you was here." Furiously, I wiped my eyes—but the floodgates had opened, and it was no use. In one final attempt to preserve my dignity, I buried my face in my hands. At least he couldn't see me. But what use was dignity now? "I-I'm never g-goin' to school again," I bawled like a baby._

 _Soda didn't seem to know what to say. "School's hard," he managed finally, eyes fixed on the ground._

 _"I'm s-sorry," I blubbered. "I didn't know anyone could see me." I didn't care anymore, but the fact that I was still crying meant that I sort of did._

 _"I work here."_

 _Oh Lord, I hadn't even realized I was right behind the DX. Now, as I peered through the cracks between my fingers, I recognized the place: the gravel lot, the gas pumps, the tiny convenience store._

 _"I just couldn't stand seein' ya like this. I wanted to make sure you was alright. I'll leave you be if ya want, I just... yeah." He stood up awkwardly, wiping his palms on his jeans._ _I watched him lope away, his boots leaving a trail of dusty prints in the gravel. A few feet away he turned around. "Hey, if ya need a walk home, just gimme a holler or somethin'. I'll be inside." His tone was completely casual, as if he'd just met me at a movie or something. Then he disappeared around the corner of the building._

 _I didn't take him up on his offer, but he had asked, and that was enough._

* * *

 **Chapter 4 is on its way. Please leave a review :)** _  
_


	4. The Gang

**thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

"Hey, no chicks allowed!" Steve pokes his head out from underneath a rusted out pickup he's working on. "Hey, Soda, grab me that wrench over there, will ya?"

"This one don't count," Dallas smirks. As we lean against the hood of a car at the DX, he shows me off like a damn trophy. Boys and their egos, I swear.

Two-Bit, Ponyboy, and Johnny walk up. The Curtis gang tend to stick together like Cheerios in a bowl of milk; they just drift toward each other as if some innate gravitational force exists between them, so wherever one goes, another is bound to be near. Sometimes they remind me of the seven dwarfs, hooting and bouncing and tripping over each other's bumbling feet, but they have their place in my heart.

Two-Bit is my personal favorite. He's always up for a laugh and won't leave anyone alone without a good round of teasing. He always seems to find himself in trouble no matter what the circumstances, which has earned him a bit of a watchful eye from the fuzz. He fires out insults like a machine—and I mean real, clever ones that he invents himself. Hell, sometimes he even insults himself. I've seen him at Buck's parties, mingling with Tim Shepard's boys and every so often picking up a blonde chick. Some nights, he gets himself boozed up so good he conks out on the floor until someone drags him upstairs.

Sodapop Curtis is one of the nicest guys I've ever met— _too_ nice. He's the kind of person you can carry on a conversation with and tell all your secrets to even if you've got nothing in common. He's handsome too, handsomer than a prince. Girls line up for him. But it's hard to say his name without Steve Randle's, because they're inseparable. Steve's a little quieter, a little sulkier, but still similar enough to Soda.

That brings me to Ponyboy Curtis, Soda's kid brother. I don't know much about the kid, but I see him walking home from school every afternoon. He's always staring at the ground as if he's expecting something to happen down there. Sometimes he parks himself behind the counter at the DX, under Steve or Soda's order to watch for customers if they're both busy in the shop, with his nose buried in his homework. He's so quiet you don't know he's even there until you hear a page turn. He's spooked the living daylights out of me a handful of times.

Ponyboy and Sodapop also live with their older brother Darry, who's been serving as a sort of guardian ever since the parents of the family died in a car wreck. I don't see much of Darry Curtis; he has to work all day in order to keep him and his brothers afloat.

And the Johnny one, Johnny Cade. He's always out somewhere, usually with Ponyboy or Dally. I'm no expert, but I can see as well as anybody the kid hasn't got loving parents. Those darting black eyes are what give him away, those eyes and that unspeaking mouth; he'd jump at the sight of his own shadow. The gang's always making a big fuss over him, like he's their pet or something. He reminds me a lot of Barb.

"How was school, Pone?" Soda jumps up and wipes his hands on his jeans, producing an impressive cloud of dirt.

"Fine. We dissected frogs in Mr. Mederris' class and Mary Ann Hershey puked all over some guy's lap."

Gradually, my attention shifts from Pony to a familiar prodding sensation around my butt. "Dallas," I hiss through clenched teeth, fixing him with a death glare, "not here, you perv." I reach up and swipe his weed.

"That was my last one," he grouches.

My shoulders rise and fall as I take a long drag. "You think I give a rat's ass? Just steal some more like you always do."

"Give it back."

"Who's gonna make me?" I sing, mimicking his trademark line. His fingers snatch at the stick between my teeth, but I turn my head in the nick of time, laughing triumphantly and giving him a gentle shove. "Oh, no you don't!"

Soda whispers something in Steve's ear, and they dissolve into a fit of silent hiccuping laughter. Two-Bit slouches against the side of a gas pump and lights up. "Westin Stamher's havin' another party tonight. Anyone up for it?"

"Can't, man," Steve replies. "Soda and me are gonna be out."

"Can I come?" Pony pipes up.

"Nah, we're bringin' girls."

Pony's face falls.

"Hey, we'll find another time." Soda scrubs Pony's hair, making it stick up like a hedgehog. "I heard about the fight before school, man. What's the deal?"

"Matthew Reed tried to beat up Bruce Chester for two-timin' his girl," Two-Bit explains. "Miracle Chester didn't break his fuckin' neck in half. Would've served him right, if ya ask me."

"Remember the kiddo," Soda says good-naturedly.

"Sorry. I'm a bad influence, ain't I? Always corruptin' his smart noggin." Two-Bit's face breaks into a wicked grin as Pony's eyes flash.

"Reckon you'll get an earful from Darry when he finds out about tha—" But Two-Bit never finishes his sentence, because Pony slams down his book face first and flings himself at the grinning redhead. It isn't long before the two of them are wrestling like puppies, each trying to pin the other down.

"Watch it, you two!" Steve yanks his toolbox out of harm's way.

"Hey, Dal." There's a small, husky voice behind me and Johny comes over to stand beside Dallas.

"What's up, Johnnycake, man?" Dallas' clap on the back nearly knocks the kid over, although there's a note of softness in his voice that wasn't there before.

"Aw, nothin'." Johnny digs at the ground with the toe of his boot, his black eyes flicking my way. "Who's this, man?" he asks, sounding as awkward as he looks.

Sneering, Dallas wraps his arms around my shoulders. "My next screw-up."

Johnny shifts.

"Her name's Sylvia. But she goes by screw-up."

"You say one more word and I'll chop your goddamn tongue off," I hiss through my smile.

"Awe, you ain't even got a blade on ya."

"I'd use Two-Bit's switch," I declare, returning his embrace.

"Fat chance."

* * *

 **I'm new here, so reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading! Chapter five is coming right up...**


	5. Don't Get Hurt

It's that time of year, that fresh time that tastes like your mouth after you brush your teeth, the time when spring breathes its life into winter. Tiny blue flowers are always the first sign, their delicate heads pushing up in sidewalk cracks, a spot of color where there once was none. How they're able to get through all the gravel and cigarette butts is a mystery, but year after year, up they come.

A couple of scrawny dandelions have appeared in the vacant lot. _April showers bring May flowers_. Is that how the saying goes? There's something about a lion and a lamb, too. I can't remember. I haven't got much room in my head for nursery rhymes anymore. Kindergarten seems eons ago.

There's something else in the vacant lot, something that holds me back. Just beyond a tree, a wisp of familiar golden hair catches the sunlight.

"Barb?"

Her shoulders are shaking. Goddamn it, Sharon should be here, not me. Anyone but me. Still, instinct takes over, and I hurry to my friend's side. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin' I just... had to get outta the house for a hot second, that's all." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I ain't stupid, Barb." Her sadness is making me sad. I was in a good mood until now, and good moods don't exactly grow on trees. And they sure as hell don't grow on crying people. Still, determined to be a good friend, I make a move to sit down beside Barb, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Shove over," I blurt, instantly realizing I've been too harsh. I pat her back awkwardly and ease myself onto the dew speckled grass. "Is it somethin' with Ronny?"

Little hiccupping noises can be heard through the curtain of hair obscuring her face. Shoot, she even _cries_ pretty. How does she do that? "Jesus Christ, stop bawlin' and I might be able to help."

Her sobs intensify, telling me I've said the wrong thing yet again. In a lame attempt at an apology, I offer her a weed and a lighter.

"Gran died," she sniffles, puffing away.

"What? How come? I didn't know she was sick."

Several fresh tears wash her cheeks, and I realize my mistake. "Shoot, I ain't good at this like Sharon."

"S'okay."

I light up, and we smoke like chimneys. A couple of Soc guys drive by in a gleaming Corvair, disrupting the stagnant morning with their hoots and cackling laughter. After their noise fades down the street, a rustle of leaves is the only sound.

"She used to brush my hair," Barb is whispering. "Whenever she came to visit, she'd sit me down on a stool and brush my hair, and I'd blab for hours. I'd tell her about school, about my parents, about whatever TV show I was watchin'... whatever I felt like sayin', I'd just say it. And she listened to every word." She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, leaving a shiny trail. "And whenever I had bad dreams, she'd sit on the side of my bed and rock me until all the tears were gone. Even when I was too old for it. Then she'd tell me a story, but I never knew how they ended 'cause I always fell asleep before they was done. She even hung a sign beside my bed with little stars and moons on it and told me it'd keep the dreams away. I still have it."

I've thought about my grandparents from time to time. A handful of yellowed photographs and scrawled first names are all I know of them. What were their lives like? Are they still alive? Could they be nearby without me even knowing it? Or do they live hours away?

"Gran loved the moon," Barb is rambling on. "She'll be watchin' when we get a man up there. If we ever do." She swallows harshly, takes a long drag, and tries, without success, to blow a smoke ring. "Ya think we ever will?"

"Oh, I dunno. Seems like a long shot to me."

"I think we will."

I pick a blade of grass and roll it between my fingertips. We listen to the hum of the morning.

"How's things with Dallas?"

I shrug. It's hard to believe nearly a month has gone by since that first night.

"Do you love 'im?" Barb asks, her voice soft.

"Dallas?"

"Yeah."

For half a second, the question paralyzes me. "I... I dunno... he digs okay, really. I like him. Well maybe not _him_ , but the way he makes me feel."

There's a puzzled look on Barb's face.

"I guess I like the way he gets under my skin. I like the looks from other girls when they find out. And... his eyes, his mean eyes. There's just somethin' about him." I fiddle with my cigarette before flipping it away. "Must run in that New York blood, I guess."

"They say he only uses you for sex."

"Let 'em talk."

"That a ring you got there?"

"Yeah." I spin the thing around my finger, admiring the way it glints in the sunlight. "Dal gave it to me 'bout a week ago. See, he ain't as bad as everyone makes him out to be."

"Where'd he get it?"

"Prob'ly rolled some drunk Soc. Don't matter, though, 'cause it's mine now."

Barb looks at her hands. "I had no idea you'd pick the greasiest hood in all of Oklahoma," she says with a gentle laugh.

"No way, Lenny was worse."

Her lips tighten, and I mentally kick myself. Why'd I bring up Lenny at a moment like this?

"It don't matter," she's muttering. "Just... watch out 'round Dallas, is all I'm sayin'."

"I'm okay, really."

Her fingers brush against my shoulder. "Don't get hurt."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading and please review! I've already started chapter 6 but school takes up a lot of time. But I'll do my best**


	6. Trouble

"I won fair and square, man!"

"Nah, you're crocked, is what you are." Eyes dancing with glee, Tim Shepard scoops the pool into his cupped hand and jingles the coins in front of Dallas' face. "Face it, I whooped your fuckin' ass."

"You got less brains than a blonde." Dallas, drink in one hand and cards in the other, scowls and releases a long belch.

"Naw, I ain't the blondie here."

Nostrils flaring, Dallas rolls his orbs around in his head. "Listen, man, don't gimme no static 'nless you wanna lose more teeth 'n you already have."

"Oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me? Your girlfriend over there?"

"Wanna take it outside, man?" A string of drool glimmers on Dallas' chin.

"It's awful temptin'." Tim gathers the cards in a pile. "I'd pay to see ya try and fight in the state you're in. What a hoot."

There's a crash as Dallas, fists clenched by his sides, jumps to his feet, nearly overturning the table, and grabs Tim by the collar of his flannel. "Piss off, asswipe." He would sound threatening if it weren't for his slurred speech. He takes a few steps closer, only to lose his balance and topple onto the grimy floor.

"See? Ya can't even stand on your own two feet," Tim chortles, and I can't help but join in.

"Don't laugh at me," Dallas whines, sounding like a fifth-grader who gets teased at recess, which only makes me laugh harder.

"You can't even think of good insults, ya drunk," I cackle, rolling my eyes and puffing on my weed. "Get ready for one hell of a hangover."

Getting to his feet is a long and laborious process. If it wasn't such good entertainment, I might even help him. He manages to knock over his drink, smashing the glass and sending brown liquid up the front of my skirt. I recoil in disgust.

"Gimme another rum," he growls, eyes flashing and unfocused.

"Get it yourself. I ain't your maid."

Finally hauling himself up, he staggers to me. "Do what I fuckin' said." The rank smell of alcohol is heavy on his breath, and I wrinkle my nose.

"Make me." But one look in his eyes tells me I've made a grave mistake.

And then everything happens fast. Dallas lashes out and grabs me, puts his contorted face inches from mine, so close I can see the red streaks in the whites of his eyes. For a split second his gaze softens, flickers, like a candle in a breeze. Then it turns hard again. With one staccato crack, his palm meets my cheek. My cigarette slips from my mouth. I struggle, squirming and whimpering, but he's got fistfuls of my hair. And then something weird happens. Dally and I lock eyes for just a millisecond, but it's enough to see Dally's face... change. And then he's himself again.

Tim wrenches Dally off of me by the shoulders, his mouth moving but not producing any sound, or maybe just I can't hear it. I slip and fall in a puddle of Dally's spilled beer and get up and brush myself off, touching my stinging cheek with my thumb. Dally and Tim are staring at me like two scared chipmunks, waiting to see what I'll do next.

But all I can think of is that image of Dally's face changing into my old man's.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm halfway out the door. It's as if my legs have a mind of their own. The swelter of Buck's place melts away, and cool night air whips through my hair as I stumble, still smarting, down the sidewalk. The sky is moonless and starless, blanketed by clouds. The only light is from the few streetlamps that haven't burnt out, their orange glow dancing on the street. I try to digest the night, try to pick an emotion to feel out of the millions that are running loops in my head.

"Hey! Hey, Sylvia!" Tires screech, and a pick-up truck rolls to the curb. I draw back, panic swelling in my gut despite the fact that I've walked this street alone many nights.

"What'cha doin' walkin' by your lonesome?" It's Sodapop's voice. "Where're ya headed?"

Where am I headed? I realize I have no idea, except it's certainly not home or back to Buck's. "Uh... the... the record store."

"What'cha up to over there at this hour?"

"Just gotta pick somethin' up." There's a decent sized closet with no windows in the back. It'll do for one night.

"Need a lift?"

Biting the inside of my cheek, I kick at the sidewalk.

"I'm just pickin' Pony up from Curly's in time for his curfew. I don't mind."

"Uh... sure, yeah."

"You cool?" His eyebrows shoot up as I slide in, and immediately I know I must be a sight to behold.

"Livin' the fuckin' dream," I snap, too exhausted and bewildered to worry about my tone.

He's silent for a spell. Then: "Ya do know you're bleedin' like a stuck pig, right?"

"What? Where?" Come to think of it, my right hand does feel a little funny.

"Your hand. Better not drip on the seat or you'll catch hell from Darry."

Deciding not to tell him there's beer all over the back of my skirt, I inspect my hand. Beams of passing streetlights reveal a fragment of glass embedded in my clammy palm. Must've gotten there when I fell.

* * *

 _Flashback_

 _"Hold still," my mother commanded, her golden hair shadowing her face like a veil as she bent over my injured foot. I had stepped on some glass outside, and several shards had become lodged in my foot. The prickly pull of the tweezers brought tears to my eyes, which I blinked back hard._

 _My mother wasn't home much, and when she was, she always seemed preoccupied by something. So her displays of affection were a rarity. The subject of my father was a minefield in the distance; we both knew it, but we never dared bring it up.  
_

 _"There you go," she said gruffly, patting my newly bandaged foot. "Now don't go outside barefoot no more."_

* * *

"You won't be able to fix 'im," Soda says suddenly. "Dally, I mean. It ain't worth it."

"I ain't tryin' to fix 'im," I mutter at length, resting my throbbing forehead on the dashboard. God, but I could go for a smoke. My head jerks when we hit a pothole, and I cuss without really hearing myself. In a few moments, we roll to a gentle stop. "We're here," Soda murmurs when I don't move.

I lift my head.

"We're at the store," he repeats.

I twirl the strap of my purse around my finger. Around and around. "Remember that day you found me 'round the back of the DX?"

"Yeah?"

"You stopped me from... from doin' somethin' real stupid to myself. If you hadn't come along, I... well, I dunno."

His dark eyes flick down, then to the side, then back up at me.

"So... thanks."

His Adam's apple bobs up and down. "Don't mention it."

"I better split." My sweaty fingers fumble with the door handle.

"Hey, wait a minute." He shifts in his seat so he's staring me square in the eye; I lower my gaze but he lifts my chin with his finger. "Listen, you gonna be okay tonight?"

We lock eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be okay."

* * *

 **Please review! I'll try to get chapter seven out asap because things are a little messy at this point and I'd HAAAATE to leave y'all hanging :)**

 **Update: Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'm taking it slow so I can work on a short film.**


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